


Falling In

by inthesummer



Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Bits of angst, Fluff, I just have to try at least once in my life, M/M, Short One Shot, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthesummer/pseuds/inthesummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philipp got injured, and Bastian is upset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling In

**Author's Note:**

> Basically my take on Fips' injury. It may be overused by now, I know, but I figured I might as well give it a try. My very first attempt on writing Lahmsteiger, I hope I at least did some justice to their characterizations.

“Oh fuck fuck fuck!!!” he hears himself say as he collapses onto the ground, and the first thing creeping into his mind is the sickening realization that it must be bad, _really_ bad, because he does not swear unless things are totally fucked up.

Then the pain hits him, in a crushing wave so intense that he can’t help but curse a hundred times more, though by now he cannot hear the words, cannot feel anything at all but the searing agony on his ankle, spreading throughout all his limbs and he grits his teeth, fisted hands digging into his eyes, all the while willing himself not to pathetically start whimpering.

“Fips, hey. I got you. I’m here.”

Someone’s trying to peel his hands away from his eyes, holding them, and Philipp knows even before he opens his eyes that it’s Basti, hovering over him.

“You’ll be okay,” he says, in a way that tells Philipp he’s not the one Basti is trying to convince.

He holds on to Basti’s big hand and squeezes it even tighter.

-

His mind is fogged, heavy with artificial drowsiness and he is too tired to even move a muscle. But he is awake, and so are all his senses, and Philipp tries to concentrate on the familiar warmth on his hand above anything else.

Basti is still holding his hand, and now he is looking at Philipp the way he always does when he thinks no one takes notice.

But Philipp always does, because _how can he not_?

-

Basti remains where he has been standing for the past half hour since Philipp came to, and he stays there even as the other people in the room starts trickling out, the last being Claudia and Julian. It’s kind of funny, Philipp thinks, that no one questions why Basti is still there, as if it’s a given that he should keep to Philipp’s side.

The mere thought makes him chuckle, but it dies down as soon as Basti looks up and their gazes meet. The younger is clearly not amused.

“You’re upset,” Philipp says, motions for Basti to come closer with little movement he could manage. Basti pushes himself off the wall, crosses the room to sit on the chair next to the bed. He has a scowl on his face, and he doesn’t look at Philipp.

“You’re upset,” Philipp repeats, doesn’t flinch even as Basti finally looks at him with a glare that could make even _Thomas_ shut up, if only for a short while. But he’s not scared of Basti, never was, never will be.

“Upset?” Basti scoffs. “Try _furious_ , Philipp. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who the fuck gave you permission to take over my role?”

Philipp just rolls his eyes, having expected the outburst, but he is not sure he knows where the other is going with this.

“Basti, what —“

“I’m the one who gets injured and sidelined for months, over and over again, dammit!!” Basti hisses, and Philipp admires how he has enough conscience not to shout the words out loud, though he needs to strain to hear what Basti says next, because his voice drops so low it’s now barely a whisper.

“It should never be you.”

Now Philipp is the one who is not looking at Basti. He has shifted his gaze to the ceiling, but instead of the pale white paint, he sees images: of past years, of moments when the tables were turned and Basti’s the one writhing on the ground in pain while he could only watch from the side.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Fips —“

“It does, doesn’t it?” he chuckles, though there is nothing remotely funny about the situation. “That’s how it feels for me, every single time it happens to you, _over and over again_. Now you know.”

The room is eerily silent for the rest of the night.

-

_“I like you, Fips. I really really like you.”_

_Philipp grinned, said something and then laughed, threw his arm around his slightly-taller friend’s shoulder, and wondered why Basti didn’t instantly laugh along with him._

-

The next time he’s awake, he’s all alone.

Basti has gone.

-

Basti doesn’t come to see him again until the evening before he gets discharged. Just like the last time he had been there, he waits until everyone else leaves the room before he approaches Philipp’s bed side. He doesn’t sit down on a chair, though; he just stands there, hovering over Philipp, who is waiting for him to break the silence.

“You’re right,” Basti finally speaks, and Philipp’s thick eyebrow arches. Basti lets out a soft laugh and reaches out to touch Philipp’s face, but seems to decide against it at the last second.

Philipp stares at his retreating hand.

“You’re right, Fips,” Basti says again. “It hurts. But I don’t – I guess I just don’t understand why it hurts you as much.”

Philipp averts his gaze from Basti’s hand to his face, takes in the insecure look he finds there and suddenly he’s not looking at a 30-year-old man, with his seasoned confidence and graying hair, matured way beyond his age through all the ups and downs of so many games in so many years.

Suddenly Philipp is seeing the freckle-faced, 16-year-old boy that Basti once was, a weary smile forming on his face as he called Philipp with his nickname for the first time and told _Fips_ that he liked him, really really liked him.

He had found it somewhat amusing then, because he could swear Basti didn’t like him much, if at all, the first few days they trained together in the youth team. It felt something like an acceptance, and Philipp was more than happy to finally get it, because he certainly liked Basti too, and told him as much.

“I like you, Basti. I really really like you.”

Perhaps it’s pathetic, to use exactly the same words he said all those years ago. But they had been true when he had said them then, though he would later learn that there was a reason why Basti looked somewhat sad upon hearing the words. And he had been careful since, keeping them for himself because he didn’t think he fully understood the weight of those words.

Philipp does now – he has been for a while – and he needs Basti to see that.

“Fips, what are you –“

“I _like_ you,” Philipp tries again, because Basti looks flustered, understandably unconvinced. Philipp can’t blame him. “And not in the way I did when I told you that the first time, but—“

“But in the way _I_ did when I told you that the first time?” Now Basti is grinning, and Philipp swears it’s contagious, because he feels like grinning, too. “In the way I still – _always_ – do?”

Basti is touching him now; his once hesitant hand is now cradling his face, his thumb gently running across Philipp’s cheek, and he is looking at Philipp in that certain way he used to do secretly, and all Philipp can think about is how bad he wants Basti to keep looking at him like that, with or without anyone else around.

Philipp is sure Basti needs no more affirmation by now, and yet it doesn’t stop him from saying, “Yeah. Exactly.”

Basti’s grin gets even wider, and he mumbles “Oh God, fucking finally!” as he leans down to brush his lips against Philipp’s.

Philipp laughs so hard his cheeks hurt.


End file.
